Companions in Evening Talk
by Kima-Neko
Summary: In the dark of the night, Wynne offers much-needed words of comfort to a troubled Dalish Warden.


He is trying to sleep. He _really_ is but his mind is just so full of everything and his thoughts won't stop chasing each other.

Hopelessly lonely, hopelessly sad, he is lying in the darkness of his tent, trying to shut off his restless mind but to no avail. The Archdemon's thoughts intertwine with his own and he gasps for breath, jerking awake, when he realizes that he's lost in the midst of yet another nightmare. Sweat runs down his brow and he sit up on his bedroll abruptly, shuddering, blood rushing in his ears.

He's losing his mind, he knows. Maybe he isn't strong enough to survive the Taint after all, maybe Duncan and Alistair have been wrong about him. Maybe he's not cut out to be one of the Grey Wardens, let alone stop the Blight. His thoughts return to Tamlen, and then to his clan and he misses all of them so terribly and what would they say if they could see him now? He can almost hear the Keeper's voice in his mind, telling him that every pain will end one day, and Merrill's voice telling him not to give up, and Tamlen's laughter, long since gone from this world, his voice mocking as he tells him to pull himself together because what kind of a Dalish is he if he gives up now?

He draws a deep breath, calming himself. There's no point in panicking, he knows. He's used to these thoughts of giving up, used to the dark doubts that creep into his heart at night. He won't give in. He can't.

But there's no going back to sleep, either. So if he won't get any more sleep this night, he might as well take over the watch and send whoever is watching over their little camp right now to sleep. Maybe it's Leliana (always looking tired during watch, humming quietly to herself) or Alistair (who can't sleep either and insists on them keeping watch together)... Either way, having some company will keep away the thoughts and nightmares that are plaguing him.

With a sigh, he leaves his tent and is a little baffled to find Wynne, of all people, sitting at the camp fire, her fingers tracing magic patterns of light into the darkness. She looks up, surprised, maybe even a bit alarmed, but her face grows soft the instant she recognizes him.

It's an open secret that the elderly mage has a soft spot for the two Grey Wardens, never said out loud but still a well known fact by everyone involved. But while Alistair sees her as a kind of grandmother, Wynne has become a dear friend for the Dalish elf, someone who understands, who doesn't judge and doesn't try to explain everything away with the Maker (of whom he has no knowledge anyway).

"You look troubled," Wynne observes as he joins her at the camp fire, staring into the flames. "Is there something I can help you with, dear?"

Help? Does he need her help? No, not really, he decides. She won't slay the Archdemon for him, won't be able to rid him of the Taint. That would be the kind of help he needs the most right now but he knows it's not an option. But maybe she can ease his mind.

"I," he says, not really knowing how to put his worries into words, "I will never lead a normal life, will I?"

He can feel her gaze on him and after a moment of hesitation, he raises his head to meet her sad eyes.

"No," she replies softly after a short silence. "No, I'm afraid not."

He can feel a bitter sigh forming on his lips. Of course not...

"Guess I knew the answer to that already," he admits, shaking his head. "I don't even know why I asked."

"Because you needed to hear it from someone else so that you can stop worrying," Wynne says. He sighs, suddenly remembering what it was like when he had learned that the had lost his parents - all alone with the pain and his thoughts and everything had been _wrong_ and he had just wanted somebody to hug him. He had been twelve back then, just a child. And now, so many years later, he feels like he's twelve again, lost and hurt and lonely. But he knows he can't feel like that anymore. He is an adult now, a proud Dalish warrior and, on top of all, one of the two remaining Grey Wardens in all of Ferelden. He cannot be a twelve-year old boy again.

"I... guess so," he replies belatedly, staring into the camp fire as if the flames can give him a more satisfying answer if he just stares at them long enough. They stay silent for a while, the night filled only with the quiet creaks and cracks of burning wood and the noises of wildlife.

Then, so suddenly that he almost starts because he is actually so lost in his thoughts, he forgot she is is even there, Wynne remarks,

"It must be hard - to be so young and to feel the weight of the world on your shoulders." He shrugs awkwardly, not saying anything. In fact, he isn't even sure if there even is a response to that. The mage doesn't seem to mind and continues,

"But you know, I believe that you can do it. Defeat the Archdemon, unite Ferelden... I believe the two of you can and will do it. And dear," he looks at her, recognizing the shimmer of the Fade spirit in her eyes and Gods, has she always looked so _powerful_? "I am grateful. Thank you for doing all of this. Not only for me and the Circle of Magi but for everyone. You are brave, my boy, so very, very brave."

He stares at her, a lump forming in his throat, his eyes prickling with something that could be tears if only he were a few years younger. On a night like this, he can't listen to the mage's kind words without feeling like crying.

"Thank you," he breathes, his voice not more than a whisper because he fears it might break if he were to raise it.

"Go to sleep, dear," Wynne advises, her lips curled into a soft smile. When he shakes his head, she offers, "I can weave a sleeping spell if you'd like?"

"Please," he hears himself beg, suddenly realizing how terribly exhausted and tired he is. Wynne murmurs some words he doesn't understand, her eyes flash with molten gold and power, the air around her crackling ever so slightly, and then he can feel his weariness growing. Whispering his thanks, he staggers inside his tent, all but collapsing on his bedroll, fast asleep before his head even hits the makeshift pillow.

He dreams of forests and birds and the quiet rush of the wind and when he opens his eyes on the next morning, he feels like himself again.


End file.
